


Window to your soul

by dixiebee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (to hide John’s feelings for Sherlock), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary and John fake relationship, Pining, but also not really?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dixiebee/pseuds/dixiebee
Summary: Set in a universe where when you fall in love with someone, your eyes change to match theirs.After John shoots the cabbie he wakes up to see that he has pale kaleidoscope eyes. The blonde attempts to hide his feelings from Sherlock by wearing navy contact lenses, but will the detective ever find out?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 56
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Hii! Thank you for clicking on my fic. After nursing an all consuming (and unquestionably unhealthy) addiction to Sherlock fanfiction for years, I have finally decided to wade in even deeper and start writing some myself. This is my second published fic and it was a lot of fun to write. I hope you like it! If so kudos and comments are forever appreciated *wink wink*.  
> Also big credits to @consumingfanfictionforever for being an amazing beta!

Everyone grew up hearing about it. It was the dramatic climax of every romance film, the chorus of every love song. Teenagers rejoiced the first time it happened to them and would tell everyone they knew " _Look, look at my eyes!_ "

No one knew why it occurred and while there had been numerous scientific studies the majority of people never questioned it, it was just another wonder of the human body like breathing or swimming. It was simultaneously taken for granted and celebrated.

For some people it happened all at once; they'd wake up with it or gasp with shock when they next passed a mirror. For others it was slower, sometimes one at a time and gradual, so much so that they almost doubted it had happened at all for a while.

However, there was always the same outcome; once you fell in love with somebody, your eyes would change colour to match theirs.

Say a brown eyed person fell for a green eyed person- their eyes would turn green for as long as they were in love with them, reverting back to brown if their feelings faded. If they were lucky and the green eyed person felt the same way their eyes would turn brown in return.

This was the way it was described to Sherlock's class in primary school. Most of his classmates seemed to have already heard it from parents and siblings but it was the first time the concept had been introduced to him. Right from the start he detested the idea. Other people were cruel, loud, stupid. Why would he want to take on a part of one of them, or just as bad, give away part of himself?

The last bit couldn't be prevented really, and over the years Sherlock recognised his own kaleidoscope eyes reflected back at him from the odd girl or boy. It was occasional thankfully, while the brunette knew he was attractive he was also keenly aware of his own popularity, or lack of it.

His resolve on the former remained strong however, his eyes would never change colour. For Sherlock, they defined him, separated him out from the murky browns and or run of the mill blue's. No, his pale eyes were different. He'd even heard them described as beautiful before.

It wasn't really about vanity though, it was the thought of belonging to someone and being at the mercy of someone that scared Sherlock off. Surely there was no one who he would ever trust enough to let have that sort of claim over him? Because that's what it really was, a claim. Pedestrians could romanticise it as much as they wanted but ultimately it was a statement- _look at their eyes this person belongs to me._

He also saw it as a sign of weakness, Mycroft constantly reinforcing this- " _caring is not an advantage Sherlock_."

So that's why his eyes had never strayed from their curious mix of blue, green and grey, and he never expected them to.

John Watson had heard about the phenomenon long before he learnt about it at school, and ever the romantic, for a while it was all he dreamt about. His navy eyes were alright, but the thought of being in love, of one day seeing the eyes of a beautiful girlfriend looking back at him in the mirror was thrilling.

He did not have to wait long, even before John reached eighteen it had happened to him twice (once requited once not so much), and by the time he was invalidated home from the army the doctor was up to a count of six times. The only problem was that it was never in both eyes. This was an endless source of annoyance and frustration for John; he was clearly in love, the other eye had bloody changed for god's sake, so what was wrong with him?

It was common to have just one eye changed during the process of falling in love, but he had surely reached a lot further than that with at least some of the women, right? Whatever the reason, it was a nuisance that had lead to many fights and even the end of a couple of relationships as his girlfriends were convinced that he didn't really love them.

So when John woke up the day after he'd shot the cabbie to find two pale blue eyes watching him in his bathroom mirror, it was a bit of a surprise to say the least. Except at the same time it kind of wasn't, Sherlock was... like no one he'd ever met before. While his gender had had John convincing himself he admired the man in a purely platonic way, that was clearly not the case and during their Chinese last night the doctor had found himself feeling this warmth in his chest that he hadn't felt for a long time, maybe ever.

"Shit!" He exclaimed, leaning in and peering at his eyes from every angle. Maybe it was just a trick of the light? However even when he closed the curtains he was still bereft from his familiar navy irises.

He couldn't move in with Sherlock like this, judging from his reaction to John asking if he had a boyfriend yesterday, the man would not be happy. He seemed to have some kind of repulsion to the whole thing.

Going online, the doctor quickly found contacts in his colour and bulk ordered some. Many people thought that using contacts was unethical as they could be used to cheat on your partner or fake your feelings, but right now he was very thankful for their existence. John had used them once before during his last relationship when his stubborn eye refused to change yet again, but it was going to be odd having to use them on both now.

He tried not to think about what it meant and tried not to feel angry about the fact that the one time he didn't want them to, both had finally changed.

A couple of days later, his eyes safe behind a pair of navy contacts, he moved in with Sherlock. John didn't really have any expectations, all he knew was that he had to get away from his bed sit and all the depressing, grey weight he felt with it.

The doctor had secretly hoped that maybe what he felt for the brunette was just a brief infatuation, and that once he moved in and got to know the real Sherlock his eyes would darken again.

That was not the case.

Living with Sherlock Holmes was infuriating, impossible, and absolutely incredible. As for the man himself, to John's dismay his feelings for him grew more intense by the day. Even when he was pissed off with the detective (which as often) he was still overcome by how brilliant, attractive and strangely lovable Sherlock was.

John knew loveable was likely a word that most people would never associate with his flatmate, and for all his apparent ego the doctor thought sadly sometimes that the brunette didn't think himself it either.

However, John knew the true Sherlock. He saw all the bits most people saw, the arrogance, the charm, the deductions and as antagonising as some of those traits could be, he loved the brunette desperately for them. But he also saw the bits few others were privileged enough to glimpse: Sherlocks unexpected but brilliant sense of humour, his vulnerability when he knew he'd done something wrong, and what it felt like to know that the great man cared for him.

Obviously not in the way John wanted, but it still set his whole body alight whenever he was in danger and six foot one of panicked, blazingly angry detective crashed in and did everything he could to ensure the blond’s safety. Of course he had returned the favour on many occasions too, and the relief and gratitude on Sherlocks face- though quickly covered with a facade of indifference- only made him fall in love with the man even more.

God he was so obvious sometimes, so pathetically, helplessly adoring of the brunette he wouldn't be surprised if everyone- including Sherlock himself- knew.

Crime scenes were the worst. The moments when the genius was utterly in his element and stalked around all commanding and excited. It was sweet and sexy and agonising all at once, and far too often praise would fall out of John's gaping, worshipping mouth.

Still, he used the contacts and forced himself to date women: nice, bland ordinary women who would put up with him for a couple of months then get tired of knowing that for John, they would never compare to Sherlock Holmes.

His latest girlfriend had been the worst. Usually when he stayed the night he woke up early to put the contacts in, but he'd overslept one morning at Sarah's and when she'd brought him breakfast in bed it had been instantly over. Apparently she hadn't appreciated a replicate of Sherlock’s unusual eyes peering up at her as she'd woken John up.

"Get out! Just fucking get out!" She'd cried, tears filling her eyes, one of which the blond realised was starting to turn navy blue.

John had felt heavy lashings of guilt for weeks.

One night, over a month after the Sarah incident, Sherlock had woken him up at 3am. He didn't turn John's bedroom light on, but the door was open and light from the hall was glaring in.

"For God’s sake wake up!" The blond had come to from his nightmare hearing Sherlock plead.

"I'm awake." The doctor murmured after a moment, his heart still distantly racing. "Sorry if I kept you up."

Sherlock stared at him. "Don't be ridiculous John, we're in the middle of a case, I wasn't planning on _sleeping_."

The blond was about to reprimand his flatmate when the horror of the situation struck him.

Sherlock was in his bedroom.

And he wasn't wearing his contacts.

Hoping with all his will that the light was too dim for his eyes to have betrayed him, John quickly turned over and shut his eyes, screwing them up at his stupidity. "I'm fine Sherlock, try and get some sleep."

He heard a quiet scoff and what sounded like "Sleep? Dull."

John breathed a cautious sigh of relief. His flatmate wasn't freaking out, so hopefully he hadn't seen his incriminating eyes.

If he had had any normal flatmate the blonde would've forgotten about the whole ordeal there and then, but John's awareness of the detective’s frighteningly sharp deduction skills put him on edge.

He decided he'd have to do something to throw the man off the scent, just in case.

Mary had been working at the surgery for less than a week when she met gp John Watson. They got on well and as their lunch breaks often lined up, frequently spent time eating together.

They were sitting in the canteen one day when the receptionist began complaining about her friend's and family's incessant interest in her "finding a nice man so she wasn't all on her own in London", especially her mother- who had attempted to set her up with a string of endlessly boring men.

At some point John turned from sympathetic to thoughtful, regarding her with a curious but hesitant look.

"Mary, this is going to sound crazy, but I think we can help each other."

Then John raised his fingers to one of his eyes and to Mary's surprise a moment later he held out a contact lens, and was staring hopefully at her with one kaleidoscope eye. 

"Wait you- you're in love with- Sherlock?" She stammered, connecting the dots as she remembered a similar pair of eyes looking down at her when the detective had picked John up for an emergency last week.

"Please don't tell him"

Mary shook her head. "Trust me, I would never."

"Ta, I appreciate it. I just- I don't think he..does relationships and I don't want to make things uncomfortable so I've been hiding it." John let out a steadying sigh. "And that's when you come in- I mean, if you want."

Mary frowned. "I don't understand."

"Well the thing is, you've met Sherlock and heard me talk about him- you know what he's like. It's impossible to keep anything from him. Last night something happened and I think he's getting suspicious about... you know." John gestured at his eyes. "So I was thinking.. what if I told Sherlock I was dating you, to throw him off track, and you could tell your friends and family that you're dating me and you won't have to be set up anymore."

"John." The receptionist said slowly. "That's actually a bloody brilliant idea, I can actually phone my mother for once without getting nagged about my 'biological clock ticking'."

John chuckled and breathed a long sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, I can't tell you how grateful I am."

"Don't worry about it, seriously."


	2. Chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get Sherlock’s perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy chapter two! This begins the night that Sherlock wakes John up from his nightmare.

Sherlock was going over some details of their latest case when he heard the familiar noises of his flatmate having a nightmare. Judging by the volume, type of sounds and frequency it was about Afghanistan.

The detective felt the odd sensation of helplessness, for some reason he didn't like knowing John was in pain, physical or mental. After trying but failing miserably to ignore it Sherlock crept up the stairs that separated them and listened outside the blond's door, his gut cramping. Despite what many thought, he unfortunately was capable of a kind of empathy, at least for the (few) people he cared about.

Frustrated with his abhorrently human emotions, he impatiently pushed open the door and called out.

"John, John!."

When this failed to work, he ventured into the man’s room.

"For God’s sake wake up!" He shouted, desperate for the feeling his gut to stop.

Luckily, the sleepy blond figure buried under a mess of twisted duvet stirred, mumbling. Then John opened his eyes properly and looked at the brunette.

Sherlock was floored.

The doctors eyes, was he imagining it or were they a lot paler than usual? Were they more like-

No, that wasn't- John was straight, right?

He needed more data. If his eyes weren't deceiving him and it wasn't just a trick of the light then surely the process had just happened and even John didn't know yet. He'd observe his flatmate’s eyes in the morning and the doctors reaction to them. Even if his eyes had changed, there was no guarantee they matched the brunette’s as of course there were many women in London with blue eyes, and with the dim light he hadn't been able to see the exact shade.

He was preempting, of course. Most likely it had been a trick of the light.

However, Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about it, that tiny, impossible thought that what if those are my eyes?

The thought should've filled him with abject horror but instead he felt a spark of curiosity for the first time in his life.

Ridiculous. He scorned his hammering heart, Sherlock Holmes didn't want or need anyone's love. If John had kaleidoscope eyes come the morning, the detective would tell him kindly but firmly that he wasn't interested. Hopefully the blond would understand as Sherlock wanted to keep him as a friend after all, John's friendship had turned out to be surprisingly invaluable.

The brunette tried to get back to the case, but again found himself unable to deter his mind from thinking about the sleeping doctor upstairs. He was filled with the great urge to rush up and shine a light in John's face and get the truth, His whole body jumping and itching with anticipation for the morning.

He resorted to playing his violin to clear his mind, but still images flashed uncontrollably through his head. Him and John kissing, the doctor taking him to bed. no more spending evenings bored while his flatmate went on tedious dates and feeling that annoyed twist in his stomach whenever John chatted some insipid woman up.

Try as he did to reject the whole idea, something warm and hopeful and _hungry_ blazed in his chest at the thought of being with John. It was awful, Sherlock felt like his body was betraying the cold indifference that he'd perfectly maintained for years.

Telling himself he was being absurd, the detective eventually managed to distract himself with a rather noxious experiment he'd been meaning to do for a while.

The hours sped by and before the brunette knew it sunlight was streaming in, flooding the brown, dusty room with the announcement of a new day. At that moment tentative footsteps padded down the stairs and suddenly Sherlock felt all panicked, his recent calmness sinking away. The detective didn't know what to do with himself and fought the urge to grab his coat and run from the flat to the sanctuary of one of his boltholes.

But it was too late, he could already hear the sleep heavy movements of John walking up behind him.

"Morning." His flatmate murmured, their shoulders brushing for a second as he moved past the detective to turn the kettle on.

Sherlock had never noticed how warm the blond was in the morning before. His whole shoulder was tingling.

He'd been so agitated for morning to come and bring the opportunity to see John's eyes again, but now the moment had arrived turning around and looking at the man felt impossible. It could change everything. Their soft domesticity was something Sherlock had never experienced with anyone before, and it was actually quite..good to share his life with someone in that way. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone.

Gathering his courage he spun around, beaker in hand, goggles adorning his pale expectant face, to find....

Nothing. John's eyes were navy.

Oh.

Well that was good, that was-

Yes. He was relieved.

Definitely.

"Are those toes?" The object of his attention asked incredulously, peering at the beaker.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snapped "Obviously." But he was hiding the urge to- to do what? Something. The detective wasn't sure but he felt all of out of sorts. He had the feeling, that intense niggling feeling of wanting but he didn't know why and what it was for.

God he hated the moments where his conscious lagged behind his subconscious, slow, lethargic. It was tedious to say the least.

"Obviously." John repeated, shaking his head. It suddenly became quite hard to look at him. Had the blondes gaze always been so inexplicably intense?

Sherlock was distantly aware of John moving to the bathroom, then coming back and the sounds and aroma of breakfast being made filling the flat. He was also aware that he'd been standing in the same stop, staring wordlessly at the space John had been in for an abnormal amount of time. He felt oddly flat.

The blond didn't say anything, maybe Sherlock did this a lot.

"Come and eat?" John asked eventually, and warmth seeped through the brunettes chest as he heard the impact of two plates being set down on the table. His doctor was always looking after him.

Sherlock picked half heartedly at his food, then once John left for work he got back to the case.

It was an interesting one, at least an eight, and usually he got swept up in the excitement and deductions and the feeling of needing to know. However today just.. none of it felt right. The Work was always better with John by his side, often complaining but ultimately needing the thrill of it as much as the detective did. Why did the blond even need a normal job? Boring.

For the first time Sherlock became aware that he was lonely. He realised that he had always been lonely in a way but now that he'd experienced an alternative the moments when John wasn't there seemed more abject, more empty and listless and just plain dull.

The day dragged on slowly in a haze of lethargic grey, the weight of John's absence laying heavy across his back. Everything felt bleak and dread coiled sharply in Sherlock’s stomach as he recognised the feeling from his cocaine days. Even Mrs Hudson failed to cheer him up with her usual warm bustle and gifts of tea and biscuits.

"He's only at work, love." She murmured sympathetically after a while.

Sherlock's head shot up and he frowned, his eyebrows dipping in an arch of annoyance.

"What?"

"John, he's only at the surgery, you needn't act like he's gone back to the war." This time she chuckled, high and bright but with an edge of nervousness. Sherlock practically growled.

"I don't need John Watson." He said with gritted teeth, irritation twisting down his spine at the fact she'd worked it out.

His landlady didn't stay long after that but the brunette didn't mind. While he cared about her to a surprising extent her company was no parallel to John's.

And finally, he heard his flatmate’s familiar footsteps and the twist of a key.

Forgetting himself, Sherlock rushed over.

"John it's been so unbearably dull, I really don't know why you insist on your pedestrian work, I think you should consider-"

Oh.

John had asked out a woman, and she'd said yes.

The fine blonde hair lay idle on the shoulder of his jacket like a serpent observing its dinner. A napkin stuck partially out of the his flatmate's pocket with the top of a phone number visible. It infuriated Sherlock to no end.

The detective didn't know why it bothered him so much. John asked women out all the time. Well, it always aggregated him a touch but this time he felt fully prepared to find this woman and murder her with his bare hands.

John was his- his friend.

It didn't help that the doctor looked so happy about it with.. with all his messy fluffy hair and that idiotic little smile.

"Everything okay?" John queried, evidently realising Sherlock was never going to finish his sentence.

"You have a date with a blonde receptionist who works at your surgery tomorrow, and you're keen about her."

John sighed, raking his hand through his hair. Sherlock watched as the blond-brown tufts leaped free from the doctor’s sweep.

"How- how did you know?"

On the surface the man looked exasperated but Sherlock noticed a glimmer of a smile threaten to seize John's lips for a moment. His flatmate was pleased that Sherlock had noticed. Interesting. Maybe he was proud? The thought was a pleasant one.

"Easy. There's a blonde hair on your shoulder, too long and light to be your own and from the angle of it the woman was hugging you, so unlikely to be a patient. You've also got a napkin with a number on it in your pocket, it's been crumpled and straightened out multiple times as if you keep looking at it, so you're keen and as tomorrow night is a Saturday, are most likely to set a date up for then. You don't have time nor money to go somewhere other than the staff canteen for lunch, so it's someone who also works at the hospital and since the female doctors, cleaners and most other staff are required to have their hair up and therefore are far less probable to _malt_ I can only assume it's a receptionist there."

"Fantastic." John smiled warmly at him.

Sherlock's disobedient heart thudded in his chest.


	3. Chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter! Will try and post chapter four either today and tomorrow to make up for the delay in posting chapter three.

The detective had impressed John yet again. He and Mary planted the napkin but the rest with her hair was purely luck.

The blond let himself breathe a sigh of relief, crisis adverted. Sherlock had been acting a bit strange this morning and he'd been worried, but even if the man had seen his eyes he seemed to be convinced of John's 'keenness' to see Mary now.

They hadn't arranged when their first fake date would be yet, but Saturday was a good a day as any and it was definitely when John would've suggested if the whole thing was genuine.

Making sure Sherlock was in hearing vicinity to stamp out any possible remaining doubts vis-à-vis last night, John made a scene of calling the number.

"Hey Mary."

"John! How's it all going, did he notice the napkin?"

"Good thanks. Yes. I was wondering if you wanted to get together Saturday night, we could get dinner?"

"Oohh is he with you?" Mary chuckled.

"Yes."

"Okay act scandalised, laugh and say, Mary, leave something for tomorrow night. Go onnn- make him jealous."

John frowned, that hadn't really been the plan. He just wanted to stop many potential suspicions from the man. He couldn't really imagine Sherlock being jealous and definitely not over him.

Mary seemed to sense his hesitation. "Look John, I know that's not why you asked me to do this but isn't it worth a try? From what you've told me about him he cares about you a lot."

The doctor lowered his voice. "Not..not like that."

"Just try it!"

John sighed, he might as well, just to keep Mary happy if for nothing else.

"Mary, leave something for tomorrow night." He laughed loudly, using his 'flirting voice'.

The blond felt a bit self conscious actually, especially as Sherlock looked up with some kind of hatred twisted in his face, and promptly swept out of the kitchen and threw himself on the sofa in his typical bored position. John hurriedly said goodbye to Mary and ended the call before the man found his gun and the wall took a beating.

He walked over and looked down at Sherlock, who was all messy curls and scowls. The brunette was adorable (though John knew his flatmate would probably kick him out and change the locks if he knew the doctor was thinking that).

However something wasn't right, they had a case, the detective was never bored when he had a mystery to unpick.

"Sherlock?" John murmured tentatively as he sank down on the couch next to the man’s head.

What he really wanted to do was ask if the brunette was okay, and if there was anything John could do, but he wasn't- he really wasn't good at that stuff outside of the surgery. Especially with Sherlock.

Briefly he wondered if it was a "danger night" as Mycroft would called them.

"What is it? I can positively hear you thinking." The detective growled, turning around to face the back of the sofa.

Sherlock seemed to have misjudged where his mass of tall gangly legs would go now that he couldn't swing them over the side. He was forced to move up a bit to be able to fold them against him and in the process John found a mass of dark hair plant itself on his lap.

The brunette seemed to realise at the same time as him and froze, locking eyes with him from below and blinking owlishly. It had clearly been an accident and John felt thick disappointment gather in his chest.

However, Sherlock couldn't move back anymore, so they stayed like that, both holding their breath. Time seemed to stop.

Eventually John moved his hands to the detective’s head, planning on gently lifting it up so that he could stand as the man was still frozen, but his hands stilled. the blond had imagined his fists tangled in Sherlocks hair for so long (though in a slightly different situation than the one they were in) that just the sight of it and the feel of those soft dark curls seemed to suck all the oxygen from his body, he was completely mesmerised. God, how did his flatmate not know just impossibly, distractingly _sexy_ he was?

Then he heard the detective sigh and he realised he was absent minded stroking Sherlocks hair. Shit, what was he doing? He had to get his flatmate off his lap before something very awkward happened.

Panicking, John leapt up, feeling slightly guilty as the brunettes head thumped against the sofa and Sherlock gave a little disgruntled noise of protest.

"Er sorry.. about the- the- yeah.." the doctor trailed off awkwardly as he realised he didn't know whether he was apologising for stroking his flatmates hair or standing up so abruptly.

"I don't mind." Sherlock mumbled.

John didn't know which one the brunette was talking about either.

Luckily, the tense atmosphere was interrupted by Sherlock’s phone going off. The sharp, cheerful noise jolting the doctors nerves.

The brunette’s whole demeanour changed at whatever the caller said and by the time he hung up the man was glowing.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his phone on the sofa and leaping up in the air, his hands fisted in victory. "John, Lestrade’s found another body, this is fantastic- is it my birthday?"

The blonde melted at the sight of his flatmate so happy, being so utterly Sherlock. He had to admit he was looking forwards to another crime scene too (though he probably shouldn't tell his therapist that), work had been getting more and more tedious; or maybe it was being away from the brunette that was getting tedious, John wondered.

The body had washed up on the bank of the Thames and lay prone, wearing nothing but a white shirt and black trousers.

Lestrade was waiting for them, and clearly didn't have any ideas yet. Sherlock immediately took on the demeanour of a trained bloodhound and surveyed the body from every angle with his magnifying glass. The doctor was so hypnotised watching his flatmate in his element that he almost forgot to take a look himself.

As the blond described the bruising he began to worry. John knew Sherlock was brilliant but he suspected even the brunette was stumped this time. What inferences could be possibly made from a crime scene with so little to work with? They didn't even know the victims name for gods sake.

"I'll tell you one thing." The detective said, causing John to look up. "That lost Veneer painting's a fake."

How.

How could Sherlock possibly have known that from a body?

As the brunette explained it, John was aware that he was staring, awe ridden and possibly drooling.This man was amazing. His flatmate, his friend was completely fantastic. How did the blonde get so lucky?

After he'd expressed this to Sherlock, unable to keep the bright, incredulous smile off his face, John became aware that Lestrade was staring at him, his greying eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. Shit. He probably looked rather infatuated right now, hopefully that wasn't what the DI had noticed.

They solved the case quickly, ending up confronting the manager of the Hickman gallery, who confessed in tears, proving Sherlock right. It even involved a run in with a world renowned assassin which had John's blood pumping for hours afterwards. This, this is what the blonde needed, to spend his days running around London solving crimes with his best friend, not trying to get Lego out of some kid’s nose. His days at the surgery were getting less and less fulfilling compared to this part of his life.

He didn't have time to worry about that though, as he was currently on his way to see Mary at one of his favourite restaurants.

Sherlock had been odd when he'd left, quiet and withdrawn. Then again, the detective wasn't exactly a model for normal behaviour and the blonde was more than used to his mood swings by now.

Mary was standing outside the restaurant looking lovely. However his feelings for Sherlock blocked any more than an distant appreciation for the woman. It was a pleasant night and gave them an opportunity to lay out their plan, when they'd start wearing the contacts and when they'd go on dates. John didn't want to make a song and dance of it, just enough to keep Sherlock away from finding out the truth. He felt a bit ridiculous about the whole thing in fact, did people actually fake date in real life? Was he overreacting?

But then he remembered the brunette’s scrutinising stare and how thoughtful he seemed the morning after John's nightmare and knew that with his flatmates deduction skills, the doctor couldn't take any chances. This was the best way.

All Mary wanted in return was to be able to tell her parents and some friends she was dating John, and for him to perhaps show his face at some of their various parties to stop her mother's endless interfering in her love life. She wasn't looking to date anyone for real right now, and they would reevaluate if she changed her mind. However, for now it was something that worked out for both of them.

After the meal Mary gave John a kiss on the cheek with her bright pink lipstick on and John half heartedly rubbed at it, ensuring there was enough left for Sherlock to deduce. Mary also took of a bottle of something called Claire De La Lune and sprayed it once on John so that the detective would be able to smell it.

Sherlock hopefully had no reason to be suspicious so they were probably going overboard, but it all felt rather fun.

Still, as much as he liked Mary and had enjoyed himself, going home to Sherlock felt like the best part of John's night.

Mary:

Mary hadn't mentioned anything to John, but she had a plan of her own. Throughout her university years she'd discovered that she had a knack for playing wingwoman, and from the few times Sherlock had come into the surgery and she'd seen him and the doctor interact, she could see it. She could see them together and no doubt everyone else could but they were both too blind to realise.

The receptionist had tried to enforced her plan of making Sherlock jealous during her and John's phone call, but the blond had seemed so unwilling and unbelieving of the idea that Mary had quickly realised she would have to do this on her own.

This was going to be fun.


	4. Chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to interrupt John and Mary’s date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s chapter four :) thank you so much for your kudos and comments, they are forever appreciated *kisses you on the mouth*

It was Friday, and the detective was miserable. 

John was out on another date with that receptionist, the one he'd come home smelling of last Saturday with some of her lurid pink lipstick marring his cheek. Repulsive. Sherlock had felt all out of sorts and agitated the whole night, only just resisting the urge to summon John under the guise of an "emergency". 

But now he was out again, some pedestrian "drinks after work!" ordeal with Mary- that was her name. Ever since he'd learnt it Sherlock had tried to delete it, but the word still buzzed distractingly in his brain like an angry wasp. The whole thing was unexplainably infuriating. 

That was it. He wasn't going to sit here bored any longer. 

It was easy to deduce which pub the pair had gone to, and Sherlock's cab pulled up at the Kings Arms less than 20 minutes later. 

The detective stormed in, pulling his coat around himself and seeking out his doctor amongst the general riffraff of alcoholics slumped over the bar and loud, bright faced people who laughed too loud and jarred on Sherlock’s nerves. He was once again reminded of why he detested these institutions. 

Mercifully, he soon spotted an oatmeal jumper peeping out of the crowd and John came into sight, laughing with a joyful looking blonde woman. The pair didn't look particularly intimate and Sherlock was relived, often when he'd interrupted John's dates in the past he'd had to physically separate them. 

"John." His deep voice rose over the general din of the place and the blonde looked over his shoulder, frowning. 

"Sherlock, I'm on a date! How the hell did you even find us?"

He didn't seem as aggravated as he usually did however, maybe this pink lipped woman was dull company. Sherlock hoped so. 

"Oh it was obvious, even Scotland Yard could've worked it out."

"What I really mean, is why? And please, please don't tell me it's another ‘emergency’." 

"As a matter of fact, it is. I was looking over some cold cases and I've spotted some crucial evidence that can only be obtained tonight."

Well strictly speaking, that last part wasn't entirely true but John didn't need to know that. 

"And I suppose you need my help?" John sighed, but the tone fell more in the realm of fond rather then exasperated. The detective allowed himself a small smile of victory, he knew he'd be taking his flatmate home.

"Of course, I'd be lost without my blogger." And then Sherlock winked, a gesture that he hoped would annoy Mary. 

Looking over at her however, she didn't seem annoyed or jealous like her predecessors of this occurrence. The woman was actually studying him with a small frown on her face, he could practically hear her thinking but wasn't sure what about for once. 

Sherlock could tell plenty about the rest of her though: she was an orphan but had plenty of friends, she'd moved to London a a month ago, had two cats and a lived in a basement flat, had been single for a while, wasn't looking to have sexual intercourse tonight yet was enjoying John's company. 

All of that was irrelevant however, as Sherlock just wanted to seize John and get out of there. 

The detective soon realised she wasn't going to make it easy for him. As she spotted him staring it was just a switch flicked on and she grabbed John's arms, trailing a fingertip up and down it seductively and pouting. 

"Oh darling do you have to go? I'm having such a good time."

Sherlock scowled, he'd clearly underestimated their progressing relationship and Mary's interest. He was struck by the memory of his aunts cat, who when in a bad mood would often crouch low in a ball of seething annoyance, then strike out at whichever fool got too close. He felt like that cat watching Mary's pink painted talon run up and down John. He fought the urge to grab his friend and pull him away from her nauseas display of ownership. 

"I'm so sorry." John stammered. "I wouldn't go if it wasn't important." 

He didn't look that upset about it to Sherlock. 

Mary sighed, her hand moving down to clasp John's hand and bring it to her lips for a kiss. It was all a bit overdramatic and the detective wrinkled his nose in disgust, something tight and unpleasant pulling in his gut. If she kept touching John Sherlock would snap and have to face the mans wrath for the rest of the night. For that reason, he turned away as they said hugged goodbye. He couldn't bear to watch her hands all over his doctor. 

When they finally disentangled Sherlock strode to the entrance, not wanting to spend a second more than he had to in that epitome of normality. 

What he didn't see was John muttering "Thanks." discreetly to Mary and her grinning and wiggling her eyebrows in return. 

When they got back to the flat, John giving Sherlock a lecture about boundaries on the way that his heart clearly wasn't in, the brunette finally felt that nagging misery and irritation leave him. He had the unexplainable desire to grab John and beg him to stop leaving but he was aware to give in to that would be utterly pathetic and what the doctor would call "a bit not good". Furthermore, Sherlock Holmes didn't beg. 

So instead he did what he always did, and absorbed them in the work. There was actually a case he'd discovered a means to find evidence for, even if it's supposed urgency was fabricated, and after the lead turned out more fruitful than even Sherlock had imagined the pair of them soon found themselves chasing down a suspect through the streets of London, boots thundering across the cobbles in twin fury. 

They were steadily gaining on him when the man, clearly getting frantic, pulled out a gun and turned it on them with shaking fingers. 

"I didn't want to have to do this but if you don't stop following me I will shoot!" He cried out, his voice hoarse from exertion. 

Sherlock heard movement by his side and noticed John had shifted slightly so that he was standing in front of the detective, protecting the man from a possible impending bullet. Whether the movement was conscious or unconscious was unclear but the brunette felt warmth gather fiercely in his chest at this gesture. 

He wasn't planning on either of them getting shot that night however. 

"Now!" He shouted, and together they lunged forwards to grab the pistol and apprehend their suspect. Unfortunately the man possessed far quicker reflexes than Sherlock had anticipated and the sound of the panicked assailant pulling the trigger echoed through the dark streets, followed by the thud of John Watson collapsing at the detectives feet. 

Blood trickled down the blond's neck. 

Sherlock's world stopped. 

He stopped breathing. 

Stopped caring about their suspect, who was running away. 

Stopped thinking. 

All he could do was fall wordlessly to John- his John's side. 

For the first time in Sherlocks life, he begged. 

He'd never been a religious man, but he begged every god he could think of and whoever the hell else was listening. 

He begged them to let John live because a world without his partner (because that's what they were- partners) was one he realised he couldn't survive in. 

If John Watson died- was dead- the brunette knew he would fall and cocaine would catch him, as it had once before. He knew that this time if that happened there would be no recovery, no light.

Before the gunshot, Sherlock was not aware of any of this. He knew he cared about the man but the extent of which he needed him was only becoming clear to the detective now. 

So he shredded all dignity and howled. He let himself burrow into John and weep and grab and hold on. He finally let the mask fall.

It was then, at his weakest moment, that he heard John murmur in that sweet, steadingly voice of his, "Sherlock, why are you crying?"

The man had the nerve to sound genuinely puzzled. 

Relief so immense it was almost painful hit Sherlock.

The detectives breath finally came back to him and he gasped out, "I thought- but you- I thought you got shot, you're bleeding."

John rolled over to look up at the brunette, bringing his fingers tentatively to the side of his head. 

"I guess it just grazed me." He said, wincing and sounding slightly shaken by how close to death he'd come. 

"But you... you fell, you were unconscious." Sherlock hated how emotional he sounded. However, he refused to believe the blonde had heard him beg and grip on to him and not said anything. 

"The second I heard the bullet I think I must've instinctively dropped to the ground, and I can feel a bruise coming on so I reckon I knocked myself out when my head hit that step."

"So you.. knocked yourself out trying to avoid a bullet which had hit you already?" 

The absurdity of the situation suddenly had them both breathless with laughter, John's loud giggle making Sherlock feel all warm once again. The two men lay there for minutes, unable to stop, clutching at each other. 

As they finally got it together and stood up, the detective, without thinking about it, pulled John into a tight, rough hug. The blond stiffened for an uneasy moment then relaxed into Sherlocks arms, wrapping himself round his friend tightly. It felt inexplicably good.

The doctor seemed to understand how much Sherlock needed the contact and made no efforts to draw back. The pair held each other for what felt like forever, and just for a moment, everything was so still and quiet that the detective felt like they were the only two people in the world. 

He couldn't bring himself to dislike the idea.


	5. Chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts wearing contacts that match Mary’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before some of you get confused, I know that Mary’s eyes are blue but I made them brown in this story just so that they are recognisably distinct from Sherlock or John’s eyes.

As the weeks stretched by since that strangely amazing night (despite sort of getting shot) when Sherlock had hugged the blond and actually cried when he thought the man was dead, John and Mary implemented their plan. They met once a week at various pubs, bars and restaurants, with Sherlock increasingly interrupting. 

The pair worked out that they would start wearing their contacts around two months into their "relationship" and just stay at that level until they felt it either wasn't necessary anymore or it became too inconvenient. 

When the time came, John decided to take the leap and do it all at once. Contacts to match Mary's irises arrived in the post the next day and the following morning he covered up his kaleidoscope eyes with warm brown rather than familiar navy.

The blond surveyed himself in the mirror. The colour didn't look bad on him but something about the situation just felt.. wrong.

What John truly wanted if he was being honest with himself was to be able to display Sherlocks eyes and show everyone, including the man himself, how loved the detective was. This brown staring back at him didn't feel like anything he was proud of and it just didn't feel like him. 

Oh well, it had to be done. 

Now came the time to show Sherlock. The doctor really wasn't sure how he'd react as this was the first time John's eyes had "changed" to match a girlfriends since they met each other. Maybe the man was still harbouring suspicions about the blond’s interest in him and would be relieved? Most likely knowing Sherlock he wouldn't say anything at all and would delete the new information immediately. 

Padding cautiously down the stairs John felt strangely nervous. 

He could hear Sherlock banging about in the kitchen and felt a familiar burst of affection in his chest as the man called out "John, I advise you don't look in the kettle for a while."

The doctor prepared his trademark exasperated face (it was best to never encourage Sherlock’s experiments) and walked into the room. 

"What have I told you about using our kitchen equipment for experiments?"

As the detective turned and looked up at him with those beautiful eyes it was hard to breathe normally, John felt unexpectedly self conscious. 

Sherlock froze, and stared. 

The blond was also completely rooted to the spot. Should.. he say something, acknowledge the change? Or would that just make things (more) awkward? His conversations about love with the brunette had never gone smoothly in the past. 

In the end it was Sherlock who spoke. Though after what he said John rather wished that he hadn't.

"I pity you." The detective spat. 

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I pity that you should fall victim to such a repulsive, trapping display of sentiment. For a while I hoped you were above all that pedestrian nonsense but it appears I underestimated you John."

"Sherlock.. for gods sake I can't help it, it's just biology!"

Well it was actually the work of www.loveyourcontacts.com but the doctor wasn't exactly going to reveal that. 

John carried on. "And look, I get that you're married to your work and would never go in for that, but some of us actually want love and have needs and- and I don't even know why I'm talking about this with you because it's none of your business anyway ." 

He felt quite angry now. Sherlock had no right to react like that. 

"None of my business. Right. Yes."

The detective looked almost sad for a moment, his earlier contempt seemingly having run out of steam.

Then he just left. Sherlock just strode to the door, grabbed his coat and left. John was used to this kind of abandonment mid case but Sherlock rarely got in such a mood about something to storm off otherwise, it was usually John doing that. 

"Where are you going?" The doctor called futilely after him. As expected he received no reply other than the sharp slam of the front door. 

Right then. John wasn't quite sure what had happened there. He felt the dull thud of pain in his stomach that usually came with arguing with the man and sighed, wrapping his arms round himself. 

When John arrived home that evening after a long day at the surgery Sherlock was thankfully home but appeared to be sulking. He didn't have any more angry words for John but instead looked forlorn and was unusually quiet, not even taking the opportunity to make a sneery comment about The blond's typing. The detective also picked at his food despondently despite the fact that they'd finished a case the night before and he should've been starving. 

Most odd of all however, were the thick black sunglasses that Sherlock refused to take off. 

The doctor tried to brush away the growing concern in his gut and told himself he was overreacting. Sherlock often had quiet days, right? Nothing to worry about and probably not linked to the events of this morning. Yes. It was all fine. 

If the brunettes mood was a result of their earlier argument John couldn't really think why. The man had always scorned his love life but in a distant, dismissive fashion, the doctor couldn't understand the reason he'd taken such offence this time- maybe he had some sort of complex about people's eyes changing. A bad experience maybe? 

Eventually he couldn't bear the thick, tense silence. 

"Sherlock, is everything alright? I know that- that we don't really talk about this stuff but you're aware that you always.. you know, can." The awkwardness lacing his voice made John cringe. 

The detective carried on staring into space like he hadn't heard his flatmate, and the blonde felt disappointed flood him. 

Then suddenly, just as John was going to give up and turn in for the night, the man spoke, his voice quiet and hoarse. 

"When are you moving out?" 

"What?"

The Sherlock sighed at the doctor’s slowness. 

"You're clearly in love with this Mary, and isn't that what people who are in love do- move in together? Hence by probability you are planning on leaving Baker Street."

John shook his head, frowning. "No, just.. no I'm definitely not leaving any time soon."

Was that what Sherlock had been upset again?the doctor found the thought to be strangely touching. 

"Oh." The detective said hesitantly and sank back on the sofa. "Good, that's.. good then"

John could tell the detective didn't fully believe  
him, and while the blond knew he should probably just go upstairs before he gave anything away, the thought of Sherlock not knowing how much he meant to his flatmate (even as just a friend) was strangely painful. 

Summoning his courage and internally begging himself not to give anything away, the shorter man got to his feet and walked across the room until he was stood in front of the sitting detective, who was still staring miserably at his lap. 

"Sherlock" he started, choosing his words carefully. "You must know, you have to know that you are my- the most important person to me, even if you're a right dick sometimes. I'm not going to leave Baker Street, I'm happy here. Besides, without me you'd probably end up accidentally blowing yourself up."

Sherlock gazed up at John and the moment felt far for intimate than it should have. 

"Okay." The detective murmured, a slow, real smile spreading over his beautiful Cupid bow lips. 

"Did you honestly think I'd leave you and Baker Street and just- all that we have." John gestured around him vaguely. "For a woman I've only known two months?"

The detective looked so vulnerable for a second that it was all John could do not to pull the man into his arms and tell him everything.

"It's going to occur eventually though isn't it? Perhaps not yet but what if you're still participating in a romantic relationship with Mary in a year, or other woman in the future."

Truthfully, the only way John could imagine leaving Baker steer and his detective was if he was dragged out kicking and screaming. It was his home, and John had never felt like that about a place before. He'd grown up in a house just out of London, but with the arguments, the alcohol that everyone but him drank like water, and Harry getting kicked out it never felt like a place where he could be himself and just relax. His room in the army was somewhere he could be himself, but as he shared it with so many other men- many of whom he wasn't particular fond of- that it never really felt like his. 

But here, with his mad flatmate and chaotic experiments and Mrs Hudson, it was strangely perfect. He could see Sherlock’s logic, that he'd want to start a family with some woman someday and live with her, and maybe before he'd met the brunette that had been his plan; however now he could happily imagine spending the rest of his life here, or if he was being honest with himself, wherever Sherlock was. He couldn't really explain any of that without raising the detectives suspicions though so John settled for shaking his head.

"I'd get too bored." he whispered, a glint of a smile in his eyes. 

The detective was still staring (John thought, but it was hard to tell with those bloody sunglasses) up at the blond, and at the man’s words his face softened in a way that was rare for Sherlock. Tentatively he reached out and held John's forearms in a warm, electric grip of affection. 

In a movement that was likely unconscious, the brunette then pulled the doctor towards him slightly. Unfortunately John had been leaning forwards anyway and this action was enough for him to suddenly topple forwards and land on Sherlock, his face digging into the detective’s shoulder and the rest of John sprawled across his body. 

"Oh. Sorry." Sherlock whispered a rare apology. "I didn't mean-"

"It's fine." John mumbled warmly, enjoying the feel of the brunette’s body against his far too much to complain. Distantly he knew he should stand up but the moment honestly felt like heaven, and what's more Sherlock wasn't tensing up; the detective seemed to have completely relaxed and let go of his earlier tension and was he- was he burying his head in John's hair? 

The doctor felt crazy even wondering about it, but that was unmistakably the feel of a cheek or chin resting on his head. 

Then unexpectedly, unthinkably, long arms encircled his body and pulled him tightly against a hard, hot chest. The sensation was dizzying and John couldn't help the satisfied hum that escaped his mouth. 

God that felt good. 

"I didn't realise you would care about me leaving so much." The doctor chuckled nervously, trying not to give away how much he was enjoying the experience. 

"John, I know I'm not one to be.. particularly complimentary of your presence and I'm aware that I don't have a conventional way of displaying appreciation, but I do- I do need you."

The detective had started slowly stroking his fingers through John's hair throughout this speech, just as the doctor had to Sherlock weeks ago. He tried not to moan. 

John wanted to kiss the brunette so badly but knew he couldn't, and so instead settled for raising his head and smiling gently at Sherlock so the detective would know how much what he said had meant. 

The brunette started saying something about Mycroft but all John could think was it was hard to take the man seriously wearing those ridiculous sunglasses indoors in winter, and on an impulse, reached up and took them off. 

Sherlock stopped mid sentence and froze, shutting his eyes but too late because was that-

Wait. 

Wait a minute. 

Sherlocks eyes- it couldn't be-

They were unmistakably navy blue. 

John couldn't breathe and there was a roaring in his ears because this was impossible, this was completely unimaginable. 

"Sherlock- your eyes." The blond blurted out, too in shock to think straight. 

The detective underneath him went ramrod straight and his hands, currently situated on John back, started shaking. 

"Listen I-" John started to say, distantly aware from the haze of his joy that he should explain about Mary. 

But the second he spoke Sherlock wordlessly clutched his face in horror and grabbed the sunglasses; then for the second time that day, moved towards the front door. The blondes stomach dropped. 

What was wrong? Was Sherlock really that against the whole eye thing? 

John clambered to his feet as he realised in misery that the man was going to do a runner. "Wait! Please, please stay and we can talk about this." He begged hurriedly. 

However the brunette payed him no heed and for the second time that day, slipped out the door. It occurred to John that he should follow the man but he felt completely frozen in shock at what had just happened, confusion and panic eclipsing his earlier joy. 

Nothing felt real. 

After he'd come to his senses John forced himself to move and a moment later he was barreling down the stairs of 221b. Mrs Hudson had come out of her flat and was loudly voicing her curiosity about all the commotion, but for once John ignored her (he would apologise later) and burst out on Baker Street to find-

Nothing. Sherlock had vanished. 

Determine not to give up, to sort this out, the doctor took off at a steady stride towards a few of Sherlocks nearest boltholes. 

He would find him. He had to find him. 

As John was thinking this, he didn't notice the man behind him with the needle.

A sharp prick on his neck was the only warning before everything went black.


	6. Chapter six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kudos and comments!

The detective had always prided himself on his ability to stay calm and detach from his emotions; he could unpick the most grotesque crime scene, throw himself into dangerous situations all while keeping his cool. 

Currently however, he was aware that what his mind was going through could be described as panicking. 

The second he left Baker Street the brunette had hailed a cab that was conveniently passing. He had a vague memory of telling the driver the location of one of his favourite boltholes, but most of the ride was a blur. All he could clearly remember is that his hands wouldn't stop shaking against the rough leather seat.

As he now sat down on a bench overlooking the Thames, Sherlock let the events of the day finally hit him; first John's eyes replicating Mary's that morning. The detectives reaction to that had been overwhelming strong, unpleasant and had thoroughly confused him. 

Yes, the implication it brought that John could move out soon had been deeply unsettling, but it was more than that. Even the thought of John remaining at Baker Street but with those brown eyes sent a sharp pang of horror and some other feeling through his gut. It was just painful. 

At the time he had been overcome, unused to feeling such a mess of human emotions, and had left 221B simply to escape that.. feeling. Oh how naive he was to assume that once he left John's proximity they would disappear.

After a day then spent in Laurister Gardens in his mild palace the detective had finally realised realised that he, Sherlock Holmes, was the biggest idiot that had ever walked the streets of London.

He wasn't averse to the blond's newly changed eyes because he was worried that the man would leave Baker Street (though that was certainly part of it). 

No, he had detested them because he was completely, desperately, utterly in love with John Watson. 

That's right, like some idiotic lovesick pedestrian in the kind of films John's girlfriends liked, he was in love with his best friend. Could he be more obvious? More insufferably cliche? Mycroft would have a field day, except he probably already knew, knowing his older brother.

But he couldn't help it. He loved his strong, brave, caring flatmate with all his ugly yet strangely endearing jumpers and stubbornness, the way he looked after him and teased him and saw past, even liked, everything that made other people say "freak". He loved when John pulled rank or a gun, and he saw the sexy soldier side of his friend. He even adored when the doctor would force him to stop in the middle of a case to eat. He loved John for hundreds and hundreds of reasons, Sherlock was beginning to realise. 

The detective didn't have any prior experience of this kind of love, all he knew was that he needed and desired John’s company in a way he never had with another human before, and that the thought of John's eyes displaying his own pale mix of colours was achingly, desperately appealing. 

But that would never happen. John's eyes were   
brown. Not Sherlock’s kaleidoscope hues, nor even the doctors natural dark blue which would at least give the detective some chance, some hope. No, the blond was clearly, axiomatically claimed by Mary who he could only assume was some insipid airhead who certainly wasn't good enough for his John. 

Not that he was his John, the brunette had thought miserably. 

While contemplating this immense realisation, the detective had been hit by another one, one he'd been blind to only just think of. 

His eyes would change. In fact, even without looking at a mirror Sherlock suspected they already had during his realisation. 

His theory was proved correct after a quick glance at his phone camera.

Fuck. Sherlock had let a rare curse slip through his panicking mind. This couldn't, it simply couldn't happen. John, with his girlfriend and stiff heterosexualness would be appalled, disgusted, pitying. He would most likely move out if he wasn't planning to already. 

So then he'd gone home and spent a solid five minutes rootling through his "disguise' draw to find a pair of sunglasses that the brunette was certain couldn't be seen through (there had been experiments). 

As disguises went, it was abhorrently amateur, but the detective had no choice. He knew contacts were an option for some but to find a pair that matched his heterochromia would be impossible. 

So Sherlock would take up a project, something that got him away from Baker Street for a few months until all this ridiculousness was under control. To be away from the person and place he loved was immeasurably unfavourable; however Sherlock was stuck with little choice in the matter. 

A quick text discussion with Mycroft (the fact that he had conversed with his brother by choice revealed the depth of his desperation) confirmed that he would be in Russia within the week to sort out a mass of scam and murder among its elite. 

Sherlock knew that logically, he shouldn't see John again until his feelings changed, lest his flatmate spot his navy eyes. Yes, the sensible thing to do would be to stay in one of London's numerous hotels, or he could even grace his parents with his rare presence and put up with their normality until his departure to Russia.

However, the brunette was rarely sensible. 

He couldn't explain it, he just needed to see John before he left, needed one more evening with him that was just them. Moreover, Sherlock was not usually by any means considerate, but even he had realised that disappearing for months with no explanation or goodbye wasn't something that John would appreciate. Before living with the doctor he wouldn't have given a second thought to what anyone appreciated, but that thought of upsetting John was... unpleasant. 

So Sherlock remained at 221b for one last night, and when John returned home he had both enjoyed and suffered at his presence. On one hand having the blond with him, going about the flat felt simply right and the detective couldn't stop staring now that he knew the reason behind his care for the man. How had he not realised how incredibly attractive he found John before? He would never stand out in a crowd but his classic, endearing handsome features became very distracting once you spent time with him. 

On the other hand, the desire to do something about how he felt was already becoming intense. Misery and agitation filled Sherlock’s veins as the doctor drove him crazy with his kind, concerned looks and warm smile and sexy stares and- and- god he wanted him so much. 

Then the blond had asked him what was wrong and after a minute Sherlock couldn't help blurting out about John leaving, it was the only one of his worries that was safe to reveal and his flatmates answer made him feel good, very good. So good that he hadn't been able to help reaching up to touch him and John's warm strong arms had felt incredible. Sherlock guessed he was unconsciously pulling the man closer and when his doctor overbalanced and their bodies ended up sprawled together, the detectives heart had stopped. 

Closing his eyes, he had committed the moment to memory, categorising every detail in his mind palace to think of when he was miserable and lonely in Russia, away from all that he loved. 

The thought of being away from his John was painful and Sherlock unthinkingly wrapped his arms around the man and pulled him in tight. Then for a few blissful moments they had talked, Sherlock murmuring rare compliments that made John go all soft and happy. 

Then the detective had decided it was time to tell him. You were supposed to break bad news when people were in a good mood right? Or was it the other way round? God the procedures that normal people adhered to were so dull, how could anyone bear to have these rules taking up valuable space in their minds?

"John." He murmured. "I thought you should know that Mycroft has given me an assignment in-"

Then he froze as the doctor reached up, and before the brunette could stop him, took his sunglasses off. 

Sherlock shut his eyes in panic but as he heard John's sharp intake of breath the detective knew he hadn't been quick enough. 

"Sherlock, your eyes!"

The sentence that changed his whole world. 

John had said other things too, pleaded him to come back and talk about it, but Sherlock was no fool. He wasn't interested in a conversation that would be filled with awkward, uncomfortable pity from the doctor. 

So just as he'd done that morning he had run, and now as he pulled himself out of the recap, his mind palace, Sherlock despised himself. 

Right now he could be in a hotel room packing for Russia with John at home and blissfully unaware of his feelings; but no, he'd let sentiment get the better of him and the worst had happened. Idiot! Absolute, blind moron! Sherlock cursed himself, ignoring the fact that the voice in his head sounded unnervingly like Mycroft's. 

Speak of the devil, his phone screen suddenly lit up with his brother’s name. 

Mycroft, unlike himself, preferred to call and often inflicted his younger brother with concerns, cases (which went largely ignored) and completely unsolicited advice. In this instance the detective guessed that the man had somehow caught wind of what had happened with John and was calling to perhaps gloat that Sherlock hadn't listened to his warnings about sentiment, or offer (infinitely worse) pity. 

As a consequence of this, the detective was extremely tempted to decline the call, but some unexplainable instinct drove his twitching fingers towards the 'Accept' button.

"What do you want? I'm extremely busy" The brunette snapped. If this was anything less than an urgent matter of national importance he would hang up. 

"Sherlock I assure you, not for this." Mycroft said in his usual self unimportant tone. However Sherlock deduced a rare shakiness to his voice, anxiety beneath the surface.

"For what?" Now that the detective’s interest had been piqued he was getting impatient and couldn't be doing with their brotherly mind games and melodrama. 

Mycroft paused. If Sherlock didn't know better he'd say he was drumming up the courage to speak. 

"Moriarty has kidnapped John."

John? 

His John had been taken? 

For a terrifying moment, Sherlock felt like he was falling down and down and down.


	7. Chapter seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out what happened to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, so I’ve had a few comments asking why my John is quite passive and isn’t sexually aggressive towards Sherlock so far and I just wanted to explain why. In my head until John spots his eyes he believes Sherlock to be asexual/aromantic due to their conversation at the restaurant in the show (where Sherlock says he’s married to his work). Because of this I haven’t made John make any moves because he thinks that Sherlock won’t reciprocate them and will get very uncomfortable instead. Obviously this won’t be the case but that’s why John isn’t more aggressive with his desire. Don’t worry this will change in the final two chapters, especially the last one. (Plus in the epilogue I’m going to add). Believe me I love BAMF sexy John too!

Voices, footsteps, multiple rough, course hands dragging him to and fro. This wasn't the first time John had been kidnapped recently but there was something different this time. Perhaps it was the creepy, high pitched voice he kept hearing with sounded oddly familiar. The doctor tried to stay calm and steeled his nerves determinedly. He was a soldier, not the public goddamnit, he was going to get himself out of this.

However if John let himself have a moment of weakness it was to think please no, not today, not when somewhere in London his curly haired best friend was out there panicking all on his own.

From what had happened earlier John had reached the obvious conclusion that Sherlock was scared of love, and while he did have feelings for John he didn't want to do anything about them. And that was.. okay. Well it wasn't really, it hurt like a fucking gaping wound but there wasn't anything John could do about it, it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.

But that didn't mean that John couldn't be there for the detective. His frozen expression of panic earlier had burnt into the blond’s memory and all he wanted to do was pull the man roughly into his arms until Sherlock knew that it was all fine.

The thought of dying or reaching some similar damning fate without seeing and reassuring Sherlock was agonising, completely and utterly impossible. A new determination filled John, and he struggled against the grip of his captors with increased vigour. _For Sherlock_.

"Ooh he's a feisty one isn't he? I do love it when they put up a fight."

That eerie sing song voice that seemed to command the men reached the doctors ears once more, causing shivers of dread to make home in John's spine.

Suddenly, his blindfold was pulled off and he was face to face with... was that- Molly's boyfriend Jim?

Dammit, he'd definitely missed something here.

"Ta daa!" The kidnapper smirked, raising his arms in a theatrical fashion.

"What's happening? Who the hell are you?"

As John bombarded the man with angry questions his soldier instincts lead him to glance around the place to try and figure out where he was. They seemed to be in some sort of changing room, with lockers, basins and mirrors completely surrounding them.

"If I told you, it would ruin the surprise."

John spat in his face, eyes blazing.

Half an hour later, the man in charge got a phone call that seemed to excite him and the group sprung into action. John was yet again blindfolded but he could hear that more people had entered the room and were saying something about how "he's nearly here"- who was nearly here? Then someone starting putting some kind of vest on him and John was distracted from his pondering.

"What's that?" He attempted another question, but received his answer when a mesh of wire brushed against his hand.

Oh god, that wasn't a vest.

"That's a bomb! What the fuck are you doing?" John demanded roughly. 

"You'll just have to wait and seee!" Jim (or whoever the hell he was) sung.

After a further ten minutes John was moved and his blindfold was taken off. Just from smell alone, the doctor could immediately tell they were near some sort of swimming pool, and this was confirmed when he looked around to see he was in a long corridor with the glinting turquoise of water peeking at the end.

Out of all the places this was unexpected. John was about to attempt asking more questions when the voice of his flatmate rung out clear from the direction of the pool.

Shit.

Shit, shit shit.

Not Sherlock. As much as he was desperate to see the man, not here. Not with a fucking bomb strapped to his chest, the detective would be in danger for gods sake. The urge to protect his friend hit him so fiercely in the chest that he almost growled from the force of it.

He opened his mouth to call out to the brunette- the words still formulating in his desperate mind-but he was stopped by a hot, soft hand clamped over his lips.

"That isn't how this works John, naughty boy!" The man hissed and the doctor experienced an deep, involuntary shudder.

Then he felt something hard and cold being attached to his ear, some kind of hearing aid or earpiece?

"So soldier boy, these are the rules; I'm going to tell you what to say to him, and if you deviate by even a word, boom!"

John nodded, glaring daggers. He might be an ex soldier, but he was clever enough to know when he didn't have the advantage in a situation and to shut up.

The men started pushing him forwards towards the exit. John took a deep breath, hoping, praying that whatever happened, him and Sherlock would both get out alive. They'd survived through worse situations against the odds right? This could be okay. Everything could be okay. They just had to play it right.

Subconsciously he flexed his wrists, ever ready to fight.

Just before John stepped out into the room of the pool, Jim stopped him.

"Oh, just one more little thing." He teased.

Jim put his hands up to the doctors face and pale, demanding fingers crept towards his eyes, causing the blonde to shut them and jerk back on reflex. The man tutted and gestured for the others to hold John in place. Rough hands snuck round and held his eyes open.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Jim ignored his indignation and leant in. Oh god, was he going to-

"No, Sherlock- he doesn't-." The doctor started saying without thinking.

John's breath whooshed out of him as his contacts were gently plucked out with almost unsettling care.

He was distinctly aware of Jim laughing "Oh, I know; In fact that's the whole point. I'm twisting this little exchange up a bit, playing God if you will. And don't think you can use the emergency one I know you keep in your pocket, we've taken those. Your stash at your little flat has been disposed of too."

The doctor seethed with hatred, anger replacing his previous fear.

However suddenly, his hands that the men were holding back brushed against the familiar cold hard metal of a gun. Glancing quickly to his side, John realised that it must be attached to the belt of one of his handlers and quickly an idea formed.

John relaxed the muscles in his legs and they gave out beneath him to disguise his purposeful decline to the floor as a simple attack of fear. The men were forced to release his hands to drag him back up and the doctor was able to surreptitiously grab the gun (which was thankfully loosely attached) and quickly stuff it in one of his deep jacket pockets.

"No time to be scared, John.” The man in charge tilted his head in theatrical mock pity. “Go on then, I haven't got all day."

Suddenly, John was pushed out into the expansive room. The light was a stark contrast to the dimly lit hallways and for a moment all he could do was blink. As his eyes because to adjust, ignoring the red lights of snipers flickering on his chest, he searched desperately around for his flatmate.

There.

There he was- his best friend. Despite their dangerous, precarious situation John couldn't help but feel a burst of warmth at the sight of Sherlock, looking devastatingly handsome in a tight suit and leaning against a pillar about twenty metres away. John noticed with a pang that he was still wearing those sunglasses. God, all the doctor wanted to do was shoot that man and his faceless comrades and get the detective the hell out of danger. Anger was rolling off of John in waves.

The detective looked up and the blond made to call out to him once again but the instructions of Moriarty echoing in his mind stopped him.

"Stay quiet, good boy." The voice in his earpiece backed up his fears. John winced and adjusted it slightly, knowing that the brunette would pick up on the movement and realise the doctor couldn't speak freely.

"John." His flatmate said finally, almost awkwardly which was odd for his charming, confident friend. Luckily though, the brunette didn't seem to have noticed his eyes, the doctor was glad that the distance and lighting was evidently working in his favour; maybe they could even get through this without Sherlock even noticing.

"Walk closer John, that's it." Jim murmured.

Perhaps he would not be so lucky.

Angrily, begrudgingly, the doctor took a few steps forwards until the space between him and Sherlock was halved.

The detective hung his head as John neared him, not making eye contact with the man. He looked wretched. "I um.. gathered that you can't talk?"

John gave the smallest nod of his head, and tried to close his eyes as much as he could while still looking natural, his heart pounding with adrenaline.

"And he can hear me?"

John frowned. Who? Did he know about Jim?

"I meant Moriarty, can Moriarty hear me?" Sherlock confirmed, evidently noticing his flatmates confusion.

"Ohh he's very clever isn't he, figuring out who I am." Came the voice again, and then the penny dropped. This was Moriarty. The man Sherlock had been tracking for months was Molly's boyfriend Jim, his kidnapper.

Shocked, the blond nodded.

"Ask him what he wants.. for- for you." His flatmates voice was strangely hoarse and John could see that he was gripping the pillar so hard his knuckles were turning white. Was Sherlock scared? His intent on killing Moriarty doubled.

It was then that John heard the connection on his earpiece being shut off, and moments later footsteps echoed loudly behind him. Without looking he knew it was the man himself.

"You think I want something?" The criminal laughed. "Oh Sherlock do you really think you have anything to offer that I can't get myself?"

The detective gritted his teeth, staring out of the pool in anger.

"No no this is simply a punishment, my dear. Stop tracking me, quit trying to stop me, leave me and my operations ALONE!"

The last word, barked in a sudden change of volume, seem to cut into John's every nerve.

"I think..." The detective drawled, finally lifting his head to stare straight at Moriarty.

Somewhere in the building, there was a thud.

"...That it might" Sherlock carried on.

Thud, thud thud.

John watched as the red lights disappeared from his chest.

"..Be a bit too late for that." The detective finished, and shouted "NOW."

Suddenly, what seemed like dozens of policemen swarmed out of every entrance of the pool. John noticed members of Scotland Yard among them.

Moriarty, seemingly in a panic at his derailed plans drew a gun out of his pocket, aimed at Sherlock and- Bang.

The criminal dropped to the floor dead. John stood grimly holding out his stolen gun, once again glad for his solider reflexes enabling him to save Sherlock’s life. The alternative was unimaginable, and John fought the urge to kick Moriarty’s body for his nerve to point a gun at _his_ detective.

Silence filled the room as everyone looked at John, panting from the adrenaline of the situation.

It was then that Sherlock finally turned to glance at John in gratitude, and the doctor saw realisation invade his flatmates features.

Sherlock had seen his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that satisfied those of you that enjoy badass John. I had to have Sherlock and the police rescued him as I couldn’t think of how he’d take care of the snipers on his own, but I tried not to make him a total damsel in distress!


	8. Chapter eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter :) (Not including a short epilogue) hope you guys enjoy and I love you for reading this far!

The street outside the pool was flooded with police cars, fire engines, even an ambulance. Everywhere around Sherlock (who was wrapped in a shock blanket yet again despite his protests) was chaos, clearly Mycroft had taken no chances. A group including reporters, police and Lestrade were gathered around the him; the latter trying to fend off the former as the press had got word of something big going on which involved the famous detective.

It was tedious.

The man himself remained still, silent, hiding behind his dark glasses. From the moment he'd glimpsed John's eyes Sherlock had found himself to be in deep, frozen shock. It hadn't helped that he hadn't been able to actually talk to the blond- the area had quickly erupted into madness and they'd been separated as the paramedics insisted on checking over the doctor.

Right now all he could do was stand and try and glimpse John through the crowds. He merely got flashes here and there of messy blond hair and glint of steely pale eyes, but even that soothed Sherlock- as well as making him feel hot and trembly all over. Maybe he was in shock after all? Though that didn't explain the aching, throbbing feeling in his chest.... It almost felt like- Oh.

As much as the term "lovesick" repulsed him, it was finally starting to make sense.

Sherlock’s mind as well as his body was in overdrive. Half of the detective wanted to find John and kiss him and hold him and feel all that warm softness and heat he'd experienced on the sofa. Half of him was trying to be logical; the blond was with Mary. Maybe his eyes had changed but there was a nauseatingly high possibility that John might want to repress those feelings and stay with the woman, after all Mary could offer John children, a normal life. Personally Sherlock couldn't think of anything duller but he knew his blogger might lust well after those normalities.

The thought crushed him. It felt like physical pain, stabbing into the brunette until he realised that he was embarrassingly near tears. Mycroft was right, love made him weak. Loving John Watson was a failure on his part.

But then the detective caught the blond's eye, finally. The look John gave him, it was a mess of intense emotion but above all kind and reassuring, a look that said _don’t worry, I’m always going to be here_. It was then that Sherlock discovered he was wrong.

Loving John Watson was a privilege, not a weakness.

Lestrade offered to take him and John back to Baker Street as he'd refused Mycroft's help like always. Usually Sherlock made a point of never travelling in a police car (too make memories of when he was a junkie) but tonight was different, he just wanted to get him and John back home as soon as possible.

However, when they went to get the doctor they found Sally Donovan talking to him. Sherlock could see as he walked towards the blond that John was carefully keeping his head and eyes low so that Sally couldn't see his irises. with his hand on his forehead under the guise of shielding his eyes from the glare of the ambulance. Clever man. Sherlock desperately, sorely hoped that what he was doing was a tactic to avoid nosy questions, not shame or denial of his love for the detective.

However as the detective approached John looked up, forgetting himself while in Sally's eye-line, and the result was chaos.

"Oh my god... John- Greg look, he has the freaks eyes, he's in love with him." Sally cried, any tact and kindness she'd been showing towards John for his evening of misfortune forgotten.

The doctor went bright red; Sherlock adjusted his sunglasses nervously.

"John, mate- is that.. is that true?" Lestrade stammered, clearly surprised, peering in intrusively at the blond’s face.

Then the doctor said something that made Sherlock’s world crumble.

"Uh, well no. They're just contacts that Moriarty used to..you know, mess with us. I forgot I had them in. "

No.

No no no no no.

Never in his life, not when he overdosed from cocaine, not when his father had died, had Sherlock felt so much pain. God it.. it hurt to breathe. He needed to put up protection, barriers, needed to isolate himself

"Well thank god for that." He heard himself scoff coldly.

John glanced up at him then, his face pinched in some emotion that was too much, the detective had to look away.

On the way home silence stretched out between them, thick, heavy tension that Sherlock despised thickening the air. All he wanted to do was burrow into the blond's arms and tell him how worried he had been about him, how glad he was to have him back safe. Yet at the same time it hurt too much to even look in John's direction and see that false depiction of his eyes claiming the face of the man he loved.

Thinking about it, Sherlock wondered how Moriarty had found contacts that were such a good resemblance when he himself could not. The train of thought quickly died however, Moriarty was a man of connections and resources that spanned far beyond even Mycroft's; of course he had the ability to find a pair of contact lenses, or even get them specially made.

Eventually they arrived back at the flat and trudged up the stairs. Sherlock sensed from John's glances that he wanted to talk, but the detective felt too devastated and angry with himself to engage in a calm discussion.

"Aren't you going to take the contacts out?" He snapped as they walked into the living room, shrugging off coats and scarfs.

John stared at him. "Er, yes at some point."

Why did Sherlock get the feeling that he was missing something?

He stalked around the kitchen. The desire to retreat to his room and for the first time in years, cry, was demanding. However the detective had covered every inch of his room with his science equipment the previous night when John had demanded they clear living and kitchen area. He was stuck.

The brunette was feeling abhorrently emotional and as John went about making them some food, Sherlock couldn't contain himself. He paced, flopped about, his hands even crept towards John's gun to release just some of that churning emotion inside of him on the wall, but the doctor eventually intervened.

"Sherlock, are you alright? If this is about.. you know, I want you to know that-"

"Why didn't you tell me straight away?" The detective interrupted, his voice loud and desperate and breaking.

Dear god what had become of him? Sherlock resisted the urge to hide his face in embarrassment.

"Tell you what?"

"At the pool, the minute I saw your eyes, didn't you think it would be a good time to say oh by the way these are just contacts Sherlock? I don't understand why, how you- you" the brunette humiliatingly floundered for words, his voice thick. "-You got my hopes up." He settled on softly, aware that he had revealed far too much. Shame trickled down his spine.

When the detective finally glanced up at John, he was looking utterly confused.

"But Sherlock I thought, I thought you didn't want to have those feelings and be with me like that, I know your.. stand on anything involving sentiment and then you ran off earlier and I just assumed..." John trailed off.

"I ran off because at the time your eyes were brown, the colour of your girlfriends." Sherlock spat, his stomach tightening at the memory. God he dreaded when John would take out the contacts and he'd be subject to the torture of seeing that- that woman's dark eyes where his colour belonged again.

"-And as for my feelings on sentiment, it's different with you... with you everything is always different." the brunette quietly added, staring down at his feet.

"Sherlock." John whispered in awe, walking up to the man where he leant against the wall, pressing the man against it and softly cupping his jaw.

The detective looked down at the hand that was holding him and finally, the tears he'd stubbornly been holding in started wet his eyes traitorously. Sherlock angrily blinked them away.

"Why are you doing this?" The brunette whispered, gesturing to John's hand. "Are you trying to get my hopes up, hurt me?"

"God no, Sherlock, I have- I have a lot to explain."

Then John took a deep breath. "My eyes changed to this colour on the day I met you."

The detective's heart stuttered.

"But I was scared, Sherlock, I thought you were married to your work and all and I just, I just loved you so hard, so quickly that I didn't want you to change your mind about me moving in, so I wore contacts. And it was fine, painful, but.. it worked. And then there was that night, you work me up from a nightmare and I didn't have my contacts in, remember?"

Sherlock nodded. "I did wonder." He whispered after a moment, his mind reeling.

"So then I asked Mary, who'd just joined the surgery, if I could tell you that she was my girlfriend. Just in case you had seen my eyes and were worried."

"But then your eyes changed, you fell for her." Sherlock protested sadly, his gaze falling to his feet once more.

"No," John murmured gently, thumb roughly stroking Sherlocks cheek as he soothed the man. "They were contacts too."

OH.

How- how had he not realised?

"So tonight Moriarty took your contacts out? And you lied to the detectives because you- you're uncomfortable with it all? Still having a sexuality crisis?" Sherlock wondered, his brain trying to race ahead.

"No, love, you don't understand." The brunette blushed at the endearment and John looked a bit surprised that he'd said it. "I... I want to be with you, I er honestly have wanted to be with you since the moment I met you. I just didn't tell anyone in case you wanted to ignore the whole thing."

Sherlock was stunned. "But why didn't you say anything? Before I left earlier, or after we got out of the pool, or in Lestrades car, there was countless possibilities, you knew my eyes were yours."

"I still thought after your reaction- I didn't think about Mary.. I thought you were horrified because you didn't want it to happen or be in a relationship."

"We're both idiots." Sherlock laughed softly, finally letting himself fall into John's embrace of his cheek.

They stared at each other for a number of moments, the detective aware that they were on the precipice of something incredible, something he wanted so badly. However for once he lacked courage, he'd never even kissed anyone before. So Sherlock settled for sliding his arm down around John's back and pulling him in tight.

"What happens now?" He whispered, feeling horribly out of his depth.

The doctor brought his head up and gazed hotly at Sherlock, raising one of his hands to stroke the soft skin around his flatmates navy eyes. The brunette shivered.

Then John smiled at his best friend, moved his hand to rest on the back of his neck, and crashed Sherlock's lips down to meet his. Those first few moments of contact were soft and gentle, full of all the unspoken affection between the two men. The doctor drew back and the brunette chased his lips.

"I love you Sherlock."

John's words set him alight.

Then they were kissing again, it was deeper, more hungry than before; full of need and passion and love. John was a maddeningly good kisser and every hard crash of his lips against Sherlocks made the brunette’s toes curl. All he could do was grip the doctor close and try not to moan too loudly as John Watson slowly took him apart, bit by bit.

Eventually they pulled apart, gasping and clutching at each other as if neither was prepared to ever let go.

"I love you too, you know." Sherlock murmured gruffly, bringing his forehead down to rest on the blond’s.

John grabbed his hand and took him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s it! Finally, they figured it out. Please leave a kudos or a comment if you liked this and remember I’ll be posting the epilogue soon so have a look out for that.


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy :)

A week later:

Martha Hudson was putting away the last of the week’s grocery shopping when she heard the door. Grumbling at the stiffness in her hip she shuffled out into the hall and opened it to reveal Greg Lestrade.

"Oh hello dear! Go on up, I think they're both in."

The inspector thanked her and she decided to join him, it had been suspiciously quiet in 221b since that dreadful business at the swimming pool. The shooting at walls, all the arguments, clients- the previous sounds that all too often reached her ears were strangely lacking.

"Yoohoo boys!" She cried as they reached the upstairs flat, hoping the pair hadn't got themselves killed. Martha wouldn't be surprised with all the dangerous stuff they got up to- Then again, remembering her youth she couldn't really talk.

However, as they opened the door a sight lay in front of them that stopped her and the DI dead in their tracks.

Oh my lord! Martha thought to herself. She'd always suspected but to see the evidence right in front of her eyes was something else.

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson were curled up together fast asleep on the sofa, stark naked with a blanket only just protecting their modesty. The blond lay sprawled over the top of the detective, arms wrapping round him protectively.

She suspected that soon Mrs Turner wouldn’t be the only landlady with ‘married ones’.

—————————————

Six months later:

Mary smiled as she took the detective's lunch to his hospital room, where he'd been a patient for three days since getting injured during a case. John had been his doctor of course and had been driving everyone crazy the last few days with how worried he was, refusing to leave his fiancé’s side (much to their managers irritation).

As of now they were curled together on Sherlock's bed, despite the fact that the doctor had been provided with a chair. Neither man was asleep, but they seemed to be softly murmuring things to each other the way only couples do, their faces mere inches apart and their arms pulling each other close. One of John's thumbs stroked repeatedly across Sherlock's cheek.

Despite the fact that the moment was in no way sexual, it seemed so intimate to Mary that she felt almost guilty to be witnessing it. Clearing her throat she announced her presence and set down the tray.

"Ta very much Mary." John smiled, but his eyes never left Sherlocks; pale blue gazing at navy.

Ever since the blond had rung her with the news six months ago, the receptionist had been overjoyed for them both; anyone could see how much they loved each other. It had been a pain to have to attend her mother's dinner parties (which were all thinly disguised attempts to set her up) alone again, but it was worth it to see her friend come in every day so happy.

The next time she passed Sherlock's room during her duties the men were sitting up with Sherlock's tray between them, and the doctor appeared to be trying to get the brunette to eat. Mary was glad, the man had hardy touched food. As the brunette finished eating a sandwich and was rewarded with a snog, the receptionist walked away again, once more feeling like she was intruding.

They were oddly perfect for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sm for reading I passionately love you all.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed, it’s all noticed and appreciated!! ❤️


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